


Flickering Lights

by Jaicen5



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Abduction, Non Consensual, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:56:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaicen5/pseuds/Jaicen5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all torture is physical</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flickering Lights

**Author's Note:**

> A small fic that came to me while having treatment for skin cancer

_I do not own these characters nor claim any right to do so  
This fanfic is purely for entertainment purposes only_

 

 

Light flickers, a startling counterpart to deeper shadows, neither enhancing nor clarifying the grainy image projected on to a wall badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. The muted beam from the projector, coupled with the dim glow from the covered window only just barely illuminates the half ring of faces, all watching the silent film with morbid fascination.

God, it’s like some sordid blue movie in a shifty backroom in Soho, he thinks, stomach clenching, muscles locked in wired tension.

The room presses in upon him, his senses on overdrive - the faint whir and soft clicking of the projector, the blinds hiding the bright sunshine, the rustling of bodies poised for action. It’s all so impersonal. Just like any other operation on any other given day of the week; see the evidence, plan the response. Except it isn’t, is it? It isn’t impersonal and he fights the impulse to leap to his feet, to shout it out loud, ram it home by fist and force. To do something, anything, other than sit here, forced to watch, to pretend that the man in the flickering lights is someone else, someone he is able to detach himself from, keep it all business like.

But it isn’t and he can’t and pretence doesn’t make it so.

Adrenaline surges accompanied by faint nausea and he welcomes it, fuels it, anything to keep the shock at bay. Because it _is_ shock, he realises, a small start of surprise temporarily overriding his angst. And that makes even less sense. After all, he should be well and truly used to it by now.

Five minutes, five fucking minutes is all it had taken! Out of his sight and up to his ears in trouble. Without even trying! The man is a perpetual magnet for it.

A shadow moves, momentarily blocking the projected image and there is a soft, collective intake of breath. Coiled apprehension thrums through him, echoed in the men around him, all suddenly leaning forward, intent, as though to identify the shadow before it disappears. But it slides away and the frame clears and there he is again, outlined on grainy celluloid, held down, blind and tightly bound.

He keeps his eyes resolutely on the long fingered hands, their supple dexterity contained by the strips of tape binding the bony wrists to the arms of the chair. Nimble those hands are, smooth and golden skinned - he’s seen them tenderly cup the head of a newborn, sensuously touch a woman’s face, painstakingly tighten a reluctant screw in the depths of a motor and wield a Browning as though it has no weight. Right now they are brutally eloquent, small movements relaying the stark reality of that darkened room. And that stark reality is a shadowed presence, menacing, prowling, controlling…. _hurting_!

He watches the slender digits curl into fists, aware of the body straining suddenly against its bonds, tense, heaving, fighting, sheer desperation radiating out and so attuned is he, that it’s as though that struggling body is in the room - here and now, not god knows where, held captive.

He can sense the fear and anger, the utter helplessness. That he is no less helpless is double the agony and he keeps his mouth tight, preventing the small sound of anguish escaping.

Five fucking minutes.

The shadow moves again and the slim fingers shoot out, curling into claws. His gaze jerks up unwillingly, sees gloved hands alight on the captive’s shoulders, scrunching the soft cotton so that it presses tight against the straining chest. The shirt is yellow, he knows, it had been clean on yesterday morning, the buttons still half undone as he’d settled in the car; the black and white projection paints it a soft grey. Lovingly the black leather caresses the stiff shoulders, unhurriedly moves down to open the first two buttons. A knife appears, slides inside the shirt and the body stills immediately, arrested by that ice cold reminder of his mortality.

Everyone freezes and a soft whispered denial escapes his lips. This is something new.

The film stutters for a moment, frames slowing, displaying multiple images of torment and panicking he thinks it’s finished. Over. The knife swiftly used, a life lost. But the ribbon of celluloid is still feeding through the projectors innards, clicking softly in reassuring monotony. Pale blotches, lines and distortion follow and he moans softly. _For God’s sake._ A bright white square abruptly assaults enlarged pupils and he squints, unwilling to look away, and yet so badly wanting to, sweat gathering clammily between his shoulder blades. _Please…please don’t let it end here._

Then, with jerking suddenness the film resumes and his gaze again locks on the familiar face, white against the grainy lines, the mouth open slightly, gasping oxygen, so unnaturally still. He knows what is coming. The solid black blindfold hides the expressive eyes and he’s savagely, fervently glad - glad he can’t see the fear, such an alien concept, so uncharacteristic of the man they are watching.

“Jesus Christ.”

The watchers are tense, he can feel them solid behind him, concern divided equally between him and the screen as the dark cloaked arm flexes. The leather enclosed hand twists and the flash of the blade in the deceiving shadows is bright, sharp, parting the shirt cleanly, exposing pale skin, grey, colourless and he knows it’s a lie. Nothing about this man is grey and colourless, he’s so full of bright yellow life, the red heat of restless energy, the fiery driving need to fix the unfixable. And yet all that, all that _feeling_ , all that fire - it’s being threatened, contained and restrained by some madman he can’t even see.

He can’t move, can only stare, frightened out of his wits, his stomach churning with a cold dread.

Five sodding, bloody minutes.

The hands stroke possessively, unhurriedly, gradually ascending to the slender neck, lifting away the curls, exposing vulnerable skin. Beneath the stroking fingers the bound body jerks, the fingers fruitlessly spasming, muscled forearms corded and tight, straining, but the gloved hands are relentless, wrapping expertly around the neck column, tightening, squeezing. Fingers scrabble futilely and are echoed in sympathy by his own, gripping the chair back, eyes dark and intense, unable to look away, held hostage to a fate he can't control.

_God don’t let him… not this time._

It is not until the fingers relax, drooping suddenly that he reluctantly allows his gaze to travel upwards again. The body slumps now, the fight ended and he holds his breath, praying to any entity that will listen.

_Get on with it, you bastard_.

The leather gloves release the neck, and move out of frame. The mirror is familiar, it has been used the previous three times and the faint misting on its surface reassures the room that Ray Doyle still lives.

A newspaper replaces the slumped figure, filling the screen with yesterday’s date and a thick felt penned message - _For Bodie_ -before the film finally ends, flickering to a white finish, the last of the celluloid fluttering uselessly accompanied by a jarring clattering from the empty reel. Someone switches it off.

The men behind him are silent. As silent as the film they’d just viewed - a blessing perhaps, unable to hear Ray’s endurance is possibly the only way he’s kept a lid on his barely controlled emotions.

Bodie doesn’t want them to talk, to say anything, to reassure him. He doesn’t want to hear the lies, no matter how well intentioned. It’s as bad as it can get and words won’t change that fact. They know.

He straightens up and whips around to face the bespectacled man in front of the projector. “Why!” he demands, voice low and lethal. “Why! It doesn’t make sense. Why torture Ray?”

George Cowley removes his glasses, dangles them from one hand where they reflect the small amount of daylight seeping through the blinds. Sharp pinpoints of white shining on the lenses. Flickering lights.

“Torture Doyle?” He gazes at his operative for a moment, eyes shrewd and understanding… pitying. “I don’t think it’s Doyle he’s torturing, Bodie.”

 

 

Jaicen5 2012

Thanks as usual to

CI5mates and pmgms.


End file.
